The Wrong Man
by screenwriter2014
Summary: A simple tale of how two ordinary people got together, in spite of their better judgement.
1. Chapter 1

_In many ways, this piece stands apart from the series. I haven't rehashed any key scenes, or kept to any plot elements from episodes. What I've tried to do is attempt a rewrite on how Hobson and Lewis might have got together. So, in terms of end result, this is entirely 'in canon'. But don't expect to see anything too familiar in the details! Hope you enjoy._

As she joined the queue at the checkout, Dr Laura Hobson sighed. Wednesday night, always the worst time to hit the supermarket...there was something about the middle of the week that meant people flocked to the place. And, as usual, there were about four cashiers on. Fabulous. She closed her eyes, and rubbed the bridge of her nose, wincing a little as she lifted her arm. That had been her own fault too. Trying to do too much on her own... She knew the lifting procedures as well as anyone, but no, she'd insisted in hauling the cadaver over on her own, and in the process had pulled most of the muscles in her right shoulder. The fact that she could reel off the precise list of which muscles she'd injured, in order of size, was of little consolation. If it was hurting now, tomorrow would be bloody agony. The queue moved forward almost imperceptibly. Scanning the other tills, she noticed a face she recognised. Robbie. He was further ahead in his queue, and craning her neck ever so slightly, she could make out a selection of ready meals, a couple of pizzas and beer on the conveyer belt. She smiled in spite of herself. Typical Robbie. Well, at least it wasn't takeaway tonight. He shuffled forward a bit, and she wondered idly what his evening would be. Something to do with a ball, no doubt. He'd been boring her stupid last week about the start of the football season, and she'd been genuinely surprised to hear that, with a Sky box, you could watch football practically every night. She shuddered at the thought.

Her queue moved up a bit, and she hauled her basket on to the belt, slowly unloading the items. Poor Robbie, always so predictable, always so... No, that wasn't fair. He was a good friend. More than that. He was loyal and dependable. Warm and, assuming Hathaway hadn't wound him up too much, affectionate. And he was clever. Really clever. You'd never know it on first glance, but his wit was second to none, and although they always teased Hathaway for his erudition, she knew that Lewis was often several steps ahead of his sergeant. It was simply that he had the experience and grace to allow the boy his moment of brilliance.

She smiled to herself. There was something solid about Robbie, a steadiness that she had always admired. But, and she knew better than most, still waters most certainly ran deep in his case. The cashier tutted impatiently, and she started to pack her things. A few aisles down, Robbie picked up the last of his bags. She could have called out, said hello, but she didn't. She wrestled with the stupid plastic bags, packing up the last of her shopping, and headed to the car park, her arm stinging with the weight of the load. Not quite knowing why, she scanned round the car park, so see if he was still there, but he'd gone.

On the drive home, she was distracted. Sliding the car into fourth gear, she thought about the conversation she'd had earlier that morning in the corridor at the station with Hathaway. They were both giving evidence tomorrow about a recent case, and had fallen into a chat about the timing of their respective cross examinations. He'd asked her if Robbie had said anything to her about retiring, and she'd tried not to laugh. He had looked serious, and she'd quickly explained that Robbie never stopped talking about retiring. But Hathaway had looked concerned and he pressed her again. Apparently Lyn was putting pressure on Lewis to move up North again. She'd mentioned it before, just after Val's death, but Robbie had always resisted. Laura had smiled, trying to reassure Hathaway that it was old news. But in all honesty, she wasn't sure. She knew he missed his family a lot. It was strange that he hadn't mentioned anything recently to her about it though...

As she swung the car into the drive, cursing as her arm objected, Laura tried to shake herself from her thoughts. She was tired. Today had been bloody awful. She hated PMs on suicides and children, and today she'd somehow managed both. A terminally-ill cancer patient who'd taken matters into his own hands this afternoon, and then the preparation for tomorrow's child abuse trial. It was tempting to fall face-first into a pizza and a bottle of Malbec, but she needed to burn off some of this nervous tension. All she needed was a decent run through the parks and along the river.

Within ten minutes, she had the shopping away, and her kit on. Locking the door behind her, and hiding the key in a ceramic owl she had in the flower bed, she strode out along the pavement, her feet finding their natural cadence. Running always helped her to think clearly. It soothed out the rough edges and focused her. She could run for miles, just slipping into the rhythm of her stride. Her arm still ached, but the smooth motion of her body almost worked as a massage. She knew the injury wasn't serious, and keeping it moving would actually help the muscles relax. As she reached the river, she began to breathe more deeply, her body adjusting to the exertion. It was a process that had fascinated her in medical school, how the body's metabolism shifts as you run, how it adapts subtly to the various needs. She ran smoothly, her feet light on the pathway and the tension of the day began to unfurl.

As she passed the Cherwell Boathouse, Laura's mind began to wander. It always did as she ran, as if the movement freed her brain from the fog of work. She knew there were good chemical reasons why running helped her think clearly, but it always seemed a little magical. She was thinking about Robbie again. She couldn't quite throw off the niggling doubt in her mind, planted earlier by Hathaway. Maybe he was about to call time on his career. She wouldn't blame him. Robbie had sacrificed more than most to the job. Again, that uneasiness. She would miss him if he left. God, she would miss him. Jesus, she'd have to start going out drinking with Hathaway, just to get over him. She picked up her pace a little, subconsciously running from the thought the moment it started. She never really had got over Lewis, had she? She'd known him for years, more than long enough to know that nothing would ever come of it, but she still loved him. He'd teased her, of course, taken her for the odd drink, but nothing serious. And for a long time that had been absolutely fine. She'd told herself that he was boring, predictable. She was an independent woman, with a love of rock climbing, fine dining, adventures to places far away, gin cocktails and, when the occasion arose, dancing all night with her friends. She loved literature, the theatre, jazz music, art galleries...Robbie Lewis wouldn't fit into her world, the world that she kept so carefully, deliberately separate from her work. He was entirely not her type, she liked men with an edge, a bit of danger. But still. As the years went by, it didn't get any easier.

She crossed the river and began the wide swoop round to Marston, which would eventually take her home. Her legs were starting to tighten a bit, and she slowed a little, taking in the surroundings, trying to relax her shoulders. No, things weren't getting any easier. Work had been awful this past month, and she had missed seeing him on a Friday night. There had been a few occasions in the past few months when they had found themselves alone, just mulling over the details of a case, talking about Lyn and baby, relaxing in each others company. It had been so easy, so entirely normal. Once he'd awkwardly given her a kiss on the cheek as they said good bye. At the time she'd not really thought much of it, but now she regretted the lost moment. In spite of her better judgement and her intentions, she'd fallen in love with him over these last few years. So incrementally it was almost imperceptible. But now she was genuinely scared he would leave and the realisation of what this meant was palpable. There was a bench on the pavement a few yards away, and she sat down heavily, bending at the waist so her head was between her knees. She wasn't dizzy, or unwell...just overwhelmed by her reaction to the depth of her feelings. All this time. She had known it all along, but she hadn't acknowledged how much it meant to her.

It was getting dark, and she needed a shower, so slowly she eased herself into a jog, feeling every stride now as she covered the pavements back to her house. All she wanted was to be home. As she arrived on her drive, and retrieved the keys from the owl, the streetlights were coming on. Within minutes she was under the hot spray, revelling in the warmth across her head and back. As the water pounded on her head, she started to run over the options methodically in her mind...wait, see what happens...move on, nothing will happen that's not already happened...ask him. She reached for the shampoo, scrubbing roughly at her scalp. She'd spent the past decade waiting for him to make a move. But what did it mean? Was he just not interested? Was he waiting too? She rinsed the suds from her hair and silently cursed him for his inability to show his feelings. She'd given him enough clues. But was this really all his fault? If he did feel anything for her...and it was a big if...could he not say exactly the same about her? She had flirted with him for years. It was their light entertainment. She'd never actually been brave enough just to tell him how she felt. Until now, hand on heart, she'd never been entirely convinced she wanted to. What they had just worked. It was simple. What she was contemplating now felt far from simple...


	2. Chapter 2

As the hot water crashed over his head, Lewis began to wake up. He really wasn't a morning person, and unless he dragged himself straight into the shower, as soon as he got out of bed, he'd stagger round in a bit of a daze until he found the coffee. It wasn't that he didn't like mornings though…just that he almost always sat up too late reading, and what with the irregular pattern of shift work, ended up getting about five hours sleep. It wasn't ideal. But old habits died hard.

Soaping up his hair, he started to hum to himself, warming up to the day. He'd have the office to himself this morning, what with Hathaway getting grilled, and he planned to finally finish that stupid form about early retirement. Not that he'd actually decided what to do. But filling out the form, getting the projections of how much money he'd actually get, it was the first step. It felt different this time. He could imagine a life for himself outside the job. No more 3am call outs, no more telling people their loved ones were dead, more time to spend on the things that mattered. It was time for a change.

Monty, his rather large and extremely spoiled cat padded into the bathroom, and curled up on the crumpled towel on the floor. He was well used to the morning routine, and he was actually quite fond of Lewis's Sinatra.

"Bloody hell Monty, shift…" Getting out of the shower, Robbie turfed the bundle of fur off his towel and started to dry himself off. As he shaved, carefully and methodically, he looked at his reflection in the small mirror. Not exactly ol' blue eyes… He smiled at himself ruefully, the lines around his eyes were now quite pronounced… there was only one set of blue eyes that he wanted.

"There's no fool like an old fool, eh Monty?" The cat rolled over, throwing his head back in an elegant stretch.

Laura, Laura, Laura…He was always thinking about her these days, and it was getting awkward. Even bloody Hathaway was on to him about it. For a clever lad, he really could be quite monumentally stupid sometimes. The way he spoke about her, them, it was as if he actually thought a relationship would happen. He just didn't see the years of trust built up, the fact that nothing had ever happened…and that nothing ever would. It just wasn't appropriate, and it wasn't fair on her. He had fallen in love with his best friend, and although he was sure she probably knew it, he had to respect the fact that she wanted to stay friends. He was too old for her, too set in his ways. And Hathaway going on at him all the time to 'give it a shot' was beginning to grate…he just didn't know when to leave it. If he made any more comments, he'd have to have a proper word with him. Last thing he wanted was Laura getting upset or embarrassed.

Dressed and ready for work, he wandered into the kitchen. The Today programme was still on, and John Humphreys was battering into some poor politician. He smirked. That bloke would have made a good interviewer down the station…though he'd have to learn to let the suspect get a word in edgeways. He put the kettle on, and flicked on the gas to boil a pan of water. Although his culinary talents might be charitably said to be 'rudimentary', Robbie was an expert at breakfast. The eggs went into the pan, the bread sliced and toasted, all timed to perfection. It was his daily ritual before the chaos of a day in the station. He'd learnt long ago that coppers never ate properly, and so whatever crap he might be forced to shovel down at midnight, he always made sure he had a good breakfast to set him up for the day.

As usual, he ate standing, perched on the edge of the counter. The crossword from the weekend was still lying on the bench…he was nearly there…just a couple more to do. Bloody Morse had well and truly got him hooked on the things. (3,3,3,1,4). That was it. He knew it had to be straightforward, they always were once you worked out the system. Same as solving murders really. All smoke and mirrors, but the truth was generally in the glaringly obvious details. But this one had him stumped. He'd have to ask Hathaway whether the numbers meant anything to him. He eyed the large volume of Collected Works on the shelf, and furrowed his brow. He was pretty sure it wasn't a Shakespeare title…it had to be a pun on something. Dumping the plate and the mug in the dishwasher, he sighed. He'd have to come back to it this evening. He glanced at his watch and swore, late again.

The drive to the station wasn't long, but there was always plenty of traffic. Pressing the button on the CD player, he relaxed back into the seat, trying to concentrate. The sultry tones of the teacher filled the car:

'Ascoltare e ripetere: Quanto tempo ci vuole per andare da Roma a Firenze?; How much time does it take to travel between Rome and Florence?'

He followed her instructions, trying to match the intonation,

'A che ore arrivono i treni da Pisa? At what times do the trains from Pisa arrive'

Again, he repeated, molding his mouth around the smooth vowels.

There was a screech of brakes, and an idiot in the opposite lane pulled a U-turn at at least 40mph. He cursed, Italian practice forgotten, and swerved quickly, pulling his car expertly into the slight skid. For moment he thought about pulling him over and booking him, but to be honest, he couldn't be bothered. If he stopped for every minor traffic infraction, he'd never make it to work. He smiled to himself, good job he was such a good driver. You could take the boy racer out of Newcastle…but… He shook his head slightly, remembering his mam's exasperation as he rolled in at 3am after a night's racing. He'd been a right little bugger in those days, lucky not to have been arrested really. As he pulled into the station, he noticed Laura's car parked next to Hathaway's, and he smiled. It would be nice to see her today. Maybe they could have a drink after work, catch up about the case last week.


	3. Chapter 3

[Slight warning: one use of bad language, and description of a sexual crime]

Hathaway slumped into one of the benches at the back of the courtroom. He fucking hated court. Higher principles of justice notwithstanding, it always felt like a final hurdle in getting the bastards locked away. How anyone could actually want to be a barrister he didn't know. He never liked cross-examinations. Too much like an interrogation for his liking. And as Lewis had made it clear on more than one occasion, being too smart when giving evidence always backfired. Keep it simple, keep your head down. He could hear his voice now. Well, he'd managed it today. It was a horrible case, child rape and murder, some poor runaway, drugs, the usual story. Only this one had had the misfortune of meeting Alan Craig. But his part had been simple: summarise the timeline of the case, add some commentary to the interrogation tapes, keep his mouth shut. Easy. He'd been done in about an hour… Dr Hobson, on the other hand, was getting quite a pasting. She'd already been on the stand for an hour and a half, and the prosecution had only just finished picking over the medical evidence. It was grim stuff, and not for the first time he pitied Hobson her task.

She was the epitome of control. So different to the sparky, mischievous woman he knew well. He'd seen it before, this transformation in court, and it always impressed him. There was a steely, calculated neutrality to her voice. To the untrained eye, she looked slightly disinterested; but he knew different. She always took meticulous notes during a trial, and today was no different. As she answered each question, she referred to the file in front of her, making small marks with her pencil in the margin. She'd once delighted in telling him that she used pencil because ink had a tendency to run in the mortuary, due to the amount of liquids. He shuddered at the memory.

In the dock, Craig was impassive and looked bored. He was staring at her. Hathaway felt disgusted on her behalf. He noticed that she never once glanced in Craig's direction, although there was no way that she was unaware of his stare. She was no doubt used to defendants trying to intimidate her.

The trial was proceeding well. There was no doubt that the forensic evidence put Craig at the scene, and he had certainly been involved. There was an element of desperation in the defense barrister's line of attack now, and he was laying into Hobson, keen to demonstrate that she had assumed too much in her report. It always riled Hathaway, the cross examination of a medical expert, of someone paid to do a professional job, a stupid game to discredit them in the face of the obvious evidence.

"The cause of death has been agreed as asphyxiation, caused by strangulation to the neck…and yet your only forensic evidence against my client is that of sexual activity with the deceased. I put it to you that you are relying on this evidence to paint a violent tableau, culminating in the victim's death.

"She was thirteen years old."

"The charge of underage sex is irrelevant to this part of the trial."

"Given the significant post-mortem lividity, and the internal injuries she suffered, I suspect your victim would disagree."

He paused, clearly unsure how far to push her, and she continued, her voice calm and measured,

"This child was raped a number of times, on at least two separate occasions. The DNA and circumstantial evidence demonstrates unequivocally that the accused, at the very least, participated in these sustained assaults. From my observations, the victim was held down, and to stop her screaming, she was gripped around the neck, and the application of such force resulted in her death. It is for the jury and the court to decide where the line between these two events must be drawn."

She looked down at her files, the PM photos reminding her of the poor girl's last moments. The judge called a break for lunch.

As the courtroom emptied, James wondered if he should speak to her before heading back to the station. She'd have to stick around for the afternoon session now, in case they had more questions. She was several groups ahead of him, and as they all filed out into the large atrium, she headed into the ladies. He was desperate for a cigarette, maybe she'd join him. He loitered around the door, checking his emails on his phone.

She saw him as she left the ladies and wandered over,

"Hello stranger… Well that was fun, wasn't it?"

He grinned, he would never tire of her dark sense of humour,

"Don't you just love this job sometimes…"

He casually slipped an arm round her shoulders as they walked towards the doors,

"Are you ok?"

She smiled up at him, eyes twinkling, appreciating his support,

"All in a day's work…"

"Fancy a crafty one behind the bike sheds, Dr Hobson?"

She smirked, nodding slightly.

"God yes… Where's Robbie?"

He grinned again at that. It was so funny. She was desperate to make sure he never caught her smoking. It wasn't like she was an addict, for goodness sake. But it amused him how much she obviously cared that he didn't find out.

"Not here, you're safe for the moment"


	4. Chapter 4

It was just after four, when Laura finally got back to her car at the station. In spite of waiting most of the afternoon, the judge had finally decided that the medical evidence was sufficiently clarified that no further questions were required. It was the usual story - once the defense had run out of ammunition, the facts stood for themselves. It didn't feel much like a victory though. In the mortuary it was relatively easy, and certainly crucial, to maintain a professional distance from the body on the slab. There were techniques one learned to disassociate from the narrative of the corpse, focusing simply on the forensic evidence. Bruises, cuts, lacerations…they all told stories of pain and struggle, but it was her role to meticulously record, to annotate, to work through hypotheses. As a pathologist you learned to be systematic and obsessive in the hunt for details, the body was a puzzle to be resolved, not a person. But in court, with the full story told in chilling detail, Laura often lost her ability to remove empathy from her analysis. Today had, as she expected, been tough, and she felt drained. She'd been tempted to seek out Robbie - his car was in the station car park, so he would probably be in his office - but after last night's revelations, she was unsure of herself. Although she had decided to talk to him, to finally tell him how she felt, actually going through with it would take time. She had to do it right. And now she had decided, she almost didn't want to see him before she felt ready to have that conversation.

She sighed. Things were changing already, weren't they? Last week she would have sauntered in, made a sarcastic comment about the abilities of the defending barrister, and toddled off happy, probably back to the mortuary for another late night's entertainment with her slightly-stiff friends. But not today. Today she was tense and slightly annoyed with herself, wondering again whether she was making a mistake in facing up to her feelings for him. Her relationship with Robbie was just how she liked it - controlled, reliable, uncomplicated. She smirked, ok, maybe not uncomplicated, but it was free of the rollercoaster of emotions that seemed to accompany her previous relationships. Did she want that? Did he? For god's sake, she didn't even know whether he thought about her in that way at all…

Walking into her kitchen, Laura flicked on the kettle. She was supposed to be going to the climbing wall at Headington in an hour, but there was no way that her shoulder would permit that tonight. It was still warm outside, and she opened up the doors to the garden. She made some tea, and wandered out into her sanctuary. For much of her adult life, Laura had spent her time amongst the dead, and even her amateur grasp of psychology could see why growing things gave her such pleasure. She kept her garden simple, but it was beautiful. She particularly liked wild flowers, and had several borders that she had created entirely from seeds gathered around Oxford. Beyond the relatively formal squares of her herb garden was a reasonable sized allotment, and beyond that, a small orchard, with apples, pears and plums. Because it was late summer, she had little pressing work to do. But there were always weeds to clear, and she made a mental note to dedicate her Saturday afternoon to clearing them from around the carrots and parsnips, which were just beginning to sprout up nicely.

As she walked back through the sun room her phone started ringing. She sighed. _Please don't be a call out… _

"Laura Hobson"

"Hi Laura, it's me"

Robbie. Without really processing why, she sat down at the table, her heart suddenly racing. This was ridiculous.

"Oh, hi, everything ok?"

"Everything's fine. How did it go in court? Hathaway said you got a bit of a mauling."

She smiled. Good old James, always to be relied upon to report back.

"Pretty grim… but it's an awful case. I think you've got him though. When I left the defense barrister was beginning to lose it"

There was a slight pause, and she wondered if he'd been distracted. He was probably still at work.

"I just hate that you get interrogated like that, seems so unfair"

_Don't read too much into that. He's just concerned. _

"Well, it is procedure, Robbie. He's entitled to his defense. However guilty he is."

"I know… just seems unfair on you."

"I'm fine. Just a bit tired."

Another pause, and she wondered if she should elaborate. She didn't want him to hang up yet. She'd never been lost for words with him before, but now everything seemed insufficient. This was exactly why she hadn't wanted to see him earlier.

"Fancy a drink later?"

She smiled in spite of herself and answered emphatically,

"Definitely. Turf at six?"

"Good, see you later"

After several changes, Laura had finally decided to wear what she was most comfortable in, black jeans, a soft grey sweater, and her fitted biker jacket. She knew she was over-analysing things, but the combination of softness and a bit of a tomboyish edge suited her mood well. Although she loved dressing up for the right occasion, this just felt like her. And she would need all the confidence she could muster this evening. Running her hand roughly though her hair, trying to create a bit of volume at the roots, she wondered if she should put on some lipstick.

The ride along the river had relaxed her nerves a little, but as Laura locked her bike to the railing, she noticed Hathaway wandering out into the beer garden, tentatively balancing two pints, several packets of crisps, and his wallet. He didn't see her, and she turned her back, pretending to struggle with the lock. For a moment she seriously considered going straight home. _Why had she simply assumed that it would just be the two of them? Had he said that?_ She thought over the conversation they'd had, trying to remember his words. No, he'd said nothing about it being a cosy tete-a-tete. She'd imagined that all by herself. _Bloody idiot_. _Why was she so upset? Well, that didn't take a genius to work out…_ Sighing again, she squared her shoulders, turned, and walked to the far side of the garden, where she knew they'd be sitting.

She was talking animatedly to Hathaway about the difference between morphine and diamorphine, something about a book he had been reading. Robbie loved it when she was in full flow like this. Her eyes sparkled, and she looked almost mischievous as she discussed the varying properties of the two potentially lethal drugs. God she was beautiful. And everyday she seemed to grow more so. It almost pained him to look at her. Her fingers unconsciously caressed the chilled glass in front of her, she pushed her fringe back from her eyes. Sometimes she truly took his breath away. He was a million miles away when the pause in their conversation reminded him that he was in company.

"I said, would you like another drink, sir?"

He grinned, never one to turn down a drink,

"Thought you'd never ask"

As Hathaway headed to the bar, he thought it best not to mention the fact had asked. Twice, in fact.

Laura suddenly felt awkward. She'd hardly spoken to Robbie directly so far, pleased that Hathaway had wanted to test out a hypothesis for the latest murder mystery he'd been reading. He was the only person she knew who managed to figure out an Agatha Christie before the end. The whole point of those puzzles was that you almost never got enough evidence to draw the right conclusion, the whole narrative was structured to keep you from the truth. But he loved to try.

She sighed, and slumped back slightly in her chair. Their eyes met, and he smiled sadly, his eyes betraying some concern,

"You ok?"

She nodded, not sure what to say. This was not how she planned to have this conversation.

"Just tired. Long day"

He held her gaze, a question forming,

"I'm fine. Honestly… I don't need anyone to look after me."

She regretted the words the moment they were spoken. _Where had that come from?_ She was so on edge, so confused, and now she was lashing out at him.

"Ok…ok"

He held his hands up defensively, not wanting to wind her up, but wondering what had sparked her outburst.

She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to ease the building tension.

"I'm sorry… that came out wrong"

She didn't look at him, and he edged a bit closer, resting his elbows on the table.

"It's ok, pet, I know you've had a rough day"

She smiled weakly. From anyone else, she'd find the endearment patronising. But from him it never felt like that. In the distance, she could see Hathaway reemerging with the drinks. She swallowed quickly, suddenly knowing what she had to say,

"Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow?"

Still she hadn't looked at him, and for a moment he was confused whether he'd heard right. The pause stretched out, and she glanced up nervously, her brilliant blue eyes searching his,

"Uh…yes."

She smiled, more confident now,

"Great, 7.30?"

He nodded, still holding her gaze, still unsure of what exactly had just happened. She looked serious, and slightly sad. He hoped she was ok. Maybe the trial really had got to her this time and she wanted to talk it over with someone who'd understand.

As James handed the drinks out, he fought back the urge to ask what the hell had just happened. You could cut the tension with a knife, and Hobson looked, well, very un-Hobson-like. He sipped his pint and snuck a quick glance over in her direction. She was actually blushing, and she'd already drunk almost a third of the G&T he'd just bought. _Time to change the subject, methinks:_

"What time do you want to do the interviews tomorrow, sir?"

Lewis shrugged, and took a sip of his pint,

"Probably best to get the lad done first thing, I'm not convinced he'll have anything further to add"

They chatted about the case for a bit, discussed the next lines of enquiry, and all the while Hathaway watched Hobson carefully. Maybe she really was just exhausted. But he'd seen her earlier, and she'd been fine then. No, there was something strange about her this evening. She seemed nervous. She was trying very hard to appear anything but, but he knew her too well to be convinced. Yes… something had definitely riled her.

As dusk began to fall, Laura suddenly realised that in her haste to leave the house, she'd left her bike lights at home. Checking her watch, she finished her drink,

"Right boys, Cinderella forgot her halogens, so will be making an early exit"

Hathaway smirked, wondering how long it would take..5, 4, 3..

"I could give you lift if you prefer, Laura? No bother"

She smiled, shaking her head,

"Not tonight, Robbie, but thanks"

He smiled back, still worried, but not wanting to make a fuss,

"Have a good night boys"

Hathaway was still watching her as she unlocked her bike. Lewis had begun to talk about the start of the football season, and the sergeant was entirely uninterested in the subject. No, Hobson was a much more fascinating prospect. And then it hit him. _Holy shit. Had the lovely Laura suddenly realised that she was hot for the Inspector? _It would explain the sudden nervousness. And the fact she kept avoiding his eyes. No mean feat seeing as Lewis never stopped looking at her. _Goodness_. For a woman of her intelligence, it had often astounded him that she hadn't made a move, but he'd always assumed she had her reasons. _Well, well, well. Looks like the good doctor has run out of reasons._

It took a serious force of will for Hathaway not to rub his hands together in glee. _Finally_. Things could certainly get interesting now.


	5. Chapter 5

Light was just beginning to break through the curtains when Laura finally woke herself from the nightmare. It was the same scene as always, the locked mortuary, the slab without a body, the relentless, building fear, seeping through her body, unable to run. Her head was pounding and she felt sick. Wearily glancing at the clock, she groaned. 5.04. Well, at least it was later than the night before.

Padding into the kitchen, she flicked the switch on the kettle. It was cold in the house, and she pulled the fleece robe tighter around her. She made tea and put the washing into the machine before setting it off on a cycle. There were at least a few advantages to always waking up at dawn. She trudged back upstairs, steaming mug in hand, and slipped back under the covers. She had no intention of sleeping any more, from experience she knew that the nightmare would come again, but she wanted the comfort of her bed. Propped up by a pile of pillows, she tried to read. Eventually though, after reading the same paragraph three times she gave up. Her mind was too distracted for reading. All she could think about was him.

Last night had been pretty unbearable, all in all. Yes, she'd asked him over, but she'd been rude and she'd felt on edge the whole evening. If this was what telling him did to her, would they even manage to stay friends? As much as she longed for him to kiss her and tell her he felt the same, was it really worth the risk of him rejecting her? He'd looked genuinely confused last night when she'd asked him round. What the hell was this evening going to be like?

But just as she began to talk herself out of going ahead with it, she remembered the sad, concerned look in his eye as they'd gazed at each other. She knew he wanted to look after her, that he cared for her. He wouldn't want to hurt her. And, God help her, she needed him, she realised that now.

By 2pm, Robbie's concentration was beginning to falter. With the interviews all finished for the day, he was slogging through the inevitable paperwork, and he wasn't making much headway. Hathaway was beavering away opposite him, generally being irritating. He eyed the clock for the third time since lunch, four more hours on, then a quick trip home, then Laura. He smiled. At least today would end well. He glanced up at Hathaway, whose eagle eyes were, for once, focused on the pad in front of him, and quickly texted her, 'want me to bring anything? R'. He adjusted the phone to silent, so as not to attract Miss Marple's attention when a reply buzzed in. He didn't have to wait long, 'no, just yourself, unless you're expecting chips, in which case bring chips, L x' He smiled. Cheeky girl. Even he could manage a night without takeaway if required. He was just about to text something to that effect, when his desk phone rang,

"Lewis. Yes ma'am… I see. No, we will attend. Yes, will update once we get there. How many? Right."

Hathaway already had his jacket on before he put the phone down. There wasn't much to say yet, there never was.

"Hit and run, Banbury road, woman and child killed, one kid seriously injured. Looks like it was deliberate."

It was well past six when they finally arrived back at the station. There seemed little doubt from the initial witness statements that the car had been driven deliberately at the young family. They had at least three students and a pensioner who all stated that it had run a red light, turned, and then accelerated towards them. A full incident had been declared, and Lewis was sketching out the details to the investigating team. From the doorway, Hathaway was watching with concern. As usual, the Inspector had thrown himself full into this investigation, with little thought of the personal consequences. It wasn't the first hit and run since his wife's death, but it was a particularly unpleasant one. They'd arrived at the same time as forensics, and Rawbone had done his usual best at being sensitive to the context. It was a pity that Hobson wasn't working today, although that said, he was glad she wouldn't have to deal with the child's PM. Poor kid, didn't stand a chance. Some poor bastard was going to have to go and explain the whole tragic scene to the husband, and he had a pretty shrewd idea who would insist on taking responsibility for that.

He felt a soft touch at the small of his back,

"This isn't good, is it, sergeant?"

He smiled sadly, and shook his head,

"No ma'am. It most certainly isn't."

He smiled at her resignedly and cocking his head in the Inspector's direction asked,

"What do you want me to do?"

"Keep an eye for the moment. It might end up helping him, you never know."

He was about to say something, but thought better of it.

"You think I should pull him from the investigation, don't you?"

Her tone held none of its usual teasing. He did his best not to look surprised.

"Forget I said that… See how he gets on this evening."

[A/N: Sorry guys…you didn't think it was going to be *that* easy, did you? Don't worry, I have a lot of this already written, so won't be keeping you in suspense for too long ;oP PS. Many thanks for the reviews - I really appreciate the feedback]


	6. Chapter 6

You would think that twenty years of slicing into corpses would lend a girl a sense of calm and control in stressful situations. But no, Laura was already nervous and flapping. She'd tidied the house, twice, and was trying to distract herself with watering the pot plants in the sun room. It was nearly 7.30, and the dinner was prepared and ready to go. Pasta puttanesca, plain and simple, nothing fancy. Tonight dinner would take care of itself. She had enough to worry about. And she knew Robbie. So long as there was plenty, he'd be happy. She smiled to herself. She'd like to make him happy.

She checked the table settings again, just to make sure, and eyed the clock. 7.45. The sauce bubbling on the hob was more than ready, so she turned it off. He'd only be a little while longer, surely, otherwise he'd have called. It was a beautiful evening, and the garden was bathed in a golden sunset. She poured herself a glass of wine and wandered outside, captivated, as always, by the delicate scent of the mimosa. Her garden was only small, and she would easily hear him as the car slid into the drive. As the sun set, and the temperature dropped, she realised that it must be well past 8. _Maybe he'd changed his mind_. She sat on the stone bench, amongst the herbs. _Maybe this wasn't meant to be_. She felt her heart sink, and a shiver coursed through her body. _He wasn't coming_.

She smiled ruefully. What a fool she had been. It was ok. It had to be ok. She would get over this. There was an outdoor Shakespeare performance at Gresham College next week, she could ask Ellen. She would be fine. Onwards and upwards. As she wandered back into the kitchen, the evening light fading, she realised that her eyes were filling with tears.

* * *

As Inspector Lewis walked the few paces to the door, he felt the weight of his burden pressing down on his shoulders. He was tired, exhausted by the day's events, but his tiredness was nothing compared to the pain the man on the other side of the door was feeling. He already knew that his words would be woefully inadequate. He felt his pain, shared his loss…but he knew there was nothing he could say that would make the man feel better. With a heavy heart, he rang the bell.

* * *

It was well after 8.30, and Laura had moved from quiet resignation to righteous indignation. He had to be on a case, but why hadn't he at least called? She checked her phone for the tenth time, and seeing nothing, cursed and switched it off. _He isn't coming_. She opened the fridge and extracted the chilled bottle of wine. Pouring herself a glass she wandered into the living room, and curled up on the sofa. _Why did I do this?_ She channel surfed, not really paying attention, and stopped on some reruns of Silent Witness. Usually it amused her, the unrealistic depiction of the mortuary, the dramatic nature of the cases, but not tonight. Tonight it was just annoying. _For fuck's sake, why hadn't he called. _She sighed, taking a deep sip of her wine. _Just don't. _He was probably out with Hathaway, he'd probably lost all track of time. It didn't matter. The answer to her question was clear, and he had saved her the awkwardness of asking. He didn't love her, he didn't even care enough to call her.

* * *

As he left the house, Robbie realised he was hungry. It was getting close to 9.30 and he hadn't eaten all day. As he threw himself into the passenger seat, Hathaway gave him a look of concern.

"Just don't."

"OK, sir".

He sighed,

"I think I'm done for today - drop me at the chippy near me house?"

"No problem"

The silence stretched out as he drove...Hathaway knew he didn't want to talk, but the silence was awkward...he tried to ramble on about something and nothing. "I can't remember the last time I had chips...probably that night we were out with Hobson"

There was a silence, and then Lewis swore flamboyantly and emphatically. Hathaway thought better than to ask, and tried not to look amused as the DI fumbled in his pockets for his mobile.

"Bloody thing is out of battery...Fine friend I am."

"Would you like to borrow mine, sir?"

"No, just drop me here, I'll walk the rest..."

Raising an eyebrow, Hathaway signaled and pulled over. Were they not under half a mile from Hobson's house, he'd have protested, but he knew where the Inspector would be going. Good, it might sort him out. She always knew how to handle him when he was like this.

"See you in the morning, sir?"

"Aye"

He stomped off, in the right direction, and Hathaway considered the situation for a moment. Pulling out his phone, he dialled. The crisp, clipped tones of her voicemail message made him smirk...he always wanted to reply in his best Carry On voice..."ooh, Dr Hobson, so serious"...but somehow he always managed to resist. Leaving the message he glanced in the rearview mirror as Lewis trudged off round the corner. He tucked the phone into his jacket pocket, and realising how close he was to the 24hr Tesco, decided to make a quick detour before heading back to the station.

It was after 10, and Laura was dozing on the sofa, the second glass of wine finished, the chocolate demolished and the TV still playing crap to itself when the doorbell rang. Groggily she stirred and walked through the hallway. She didn't put the light on, but watched him through the peephole for a second. He looked terrible. After a moment or two, he went to ring again, but stopped shot of the buzzer, ran his hand through his hair, and turned away.

She slid the bolt and opened the door,

"I'm afraid dinner is ruined"

"I'm so so sorry Laura, I..."

She rubbed her eyes, suddenly exhausted by it all,

"I'm tired Robbie, I.."

"Can I come in, pet?"

She nodded, and stepped back from the door, turning away from him, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. He followed her, closing the door behind him. In the gloom of the hallway, he reached out a hand to her shoulder, his fingers skimming her cashmere sweater.

"I'm sorry Laura, I had no idea how late I would be..."

She turned, surprised as he pulled her closer still, until his arm was around her. She placed her hand on his chest - to comfort him or create some distance, she couldn't be sure - "It's fine. It was only pasta"

He smiled sadly. "It's not fine. I'll make it up to you, promise"

She nodded, not entirely trusting herself to speak, still not looking at him. "It's nothing"

"Laura..."

She looked up at him, her brows furled, her slate blue eyes sparkling in the half-light. He gave her a sheepish smile.

She would never know if it was the extra glass of wine she'd drunk or the sheer confusing frustration of the situation, but she found herself sliding her hand up his neck and pressing her lips firmly to his. He groaned, and she molded herself against him, her need raw and immediate. He returned her kiss but sweetened it, his hand caressing her cheek, soothing her, calming her. His lips were gentle, and he carefully kissed her mouth, her nose, her forehead, before folding her into his arms.

"Laura... I…I… can't do this. Not now. I'm sorry..."

The breath caught in her throat, and she felt dizzy. His arms were still tight around her, but his voice was so sad and resigned. She couldn't look at him, burying her face in his shirt, holding on for one last moment to the closeness.

"I..."

She wouldn't cry, not again. Taking a deep breath, she gently pushed him away, and stepped back, wrapping her arms back around herself, still not meeting his eyes. Anger and shame washed over her, and she tried to pull herself together.

"Please go now, Robbie. I'm don't want to talk about it." She turned and walked into the kitchen, wanting to be away from the situation, away from her embarrassment, away from him. For a moment she wondered if he might follow, but as she put the kettle on she heard the door latch and the loud slam as he left.

[I'm sorry! I promise this will get better soon! ;)]


	7. Chapter 7

She eyed the bottle distractedly. It was past 1am and she still hadn't slept. She knew it was useless, she was overtired, and the pills would only knock her out completely. She had a PM at 9am and there was no way she'd be able to drive to work, let alone wield a scalpel if she took one now.

The little red light on her phone flashed intermittently, but she had so far avoided picking it up. She was sorely tempted to turn the bloody thing off again, but she was technically on call from 6am, and it simple wasn't worth the risk. Rubbing her eyes, still sore from crying, she sat up in bed and grabbed the phone. 3 texts, 2 missed calls.

Robbie: Please don't be angry Laura, I'm so sorry I upset you. Can we talk?

Robbie: Please, Laura, I don't want to lose you.

There was another name in the list, a name she didn't expect to see:

Hathaway: Are you ok?

It had arrived at around midnight, by the look of it, long after she'd switched the phone off. How the hell did he know? For Christ's sake...

There were two missed calls, both from Hathaway, and by the looks of it, two voicemails. She frowned. The first call had been just after 9.30:

"Good evening, Dr Hobson. DI Hathaway. Sorry to call you Laura, but I think I might need your help. Lewis just finished doing a housecall to the husband from today's hit and run. Wife dead, along with the kids. He looks bloody awful. He's pretending it's all water under the bridge, but I know him well enough to see it's a front. I've just dropped him off near your house, but I'm worried all this might be getting to him... I don't know. He didn't say if he was heading to your place, but if you're in, you might well see him in twenty minutes or so. Maybe we could all have a drink tomorrow night? You know how to help him when he's like this. Anyway, thanks. I hope he isn't in too foul a mood when he gets to you."

She sighed, closing her eyes, pressing the phone to her lips. Oh god. How could she have been so totally and utterly stupid? For years she'd expertly trodden a delicate path with Robbie, supporting him through his grief. And tonight, when all he'd needed was a kind ear, and a glass of scotch, she'd practically lynched him. No wonder he'd run.

Gingerly, she pressed play on the second message from James:

"Me again, Laura." There was a long pause... "It's just after 1, and I've left Inspector Lewis at his flat. I found him wandering back from your house when I was filling up the car at the garage round the corner. Look...I've no idea what happened, but whatever he's said, he didn't mean it. He's punched a dent in my car, announced his retirement, and told me that you deserve far better. It's none of my business, but, well...I thought you should know. I've a feeling he might have broken a finger actually, but I wasn't going to risk insisting on hospital tonight. Anyway, hope you're ok - call me if you need to."

Oh Robbie.

Laura glanced at the clock. 1.45am. Who was she kidding? Pulling on some jeans and a sweater, she walked to the bathroom. God, she looked old. Splashing some cold water on her puffy eyes, she wondered if she should put some makeup on. No. Enough of trying to be perfect all the time, he'd have to take her as she was. She picked up her medical bag and her keys, and walked out the door.

Driving through Oxford at 2am was a strange feeling, but one she knew well. Violent death rarely restricted itself to the hours of daylight, and the lack of traffic in the centre of town was one of the few benefits of being dragged out of a warm bed in the early hours. She knew the route well, and as she concentrated on the road, she began to relax. It didn't matter what happened now, not really. She had no agenda. She just knew that he was hurt and that she wanted to help him. She wouldn't let her stupid wounded pride get in the way of that. She loved him, she saw that now, it was what had kept her coming back to him all these years - he had always been there, always constant - but this was enough, he was her best friend.

As she pulled the car into the drive, she noticed that none of his lights were on. Maybe he had gone to bed. She doubted it. Robbie was as bad an insomniac as she was. _Please don't let him be drunk…_ She locked the car, and fingered the extra set of keys she had brought. It felt like an invasion of privacy, but one that might be necessary. She'd had the keys for months, after she had looked after his cat during his last trip up to Lyn's, and it had never felt entirely right to return them.

She knocked lightly, and turned the key in the lock. As the door swung opened, she listened carefully. Nothing. Monty padded across the hall, rubbing himself against her legs. "At least one of you is pleased to see me", she whispered. Conscious that she was walking around in the dark, in the house of a police officer, she called out,

"Robbie...it's me..."

Nothing.

"Where are you?"

Again silence, but a light clicked on in the living room. Steeling herself, she walked towards the light.

He was slumped in the sofa, still in his suit, a full whisky bottle sat on the coffee table in front of him. He was curled over, his head resting on his good hand, the other hanging limply in his lap. She placed her bag carefully on the floor, and walked over to the kitchen. Quickly, she located a couple of tumblers, and carried them back to where he was slumped. She sat down carefully, and opening the bottle of whisky, poured a couple of large measures.

He still hadn't looked at her, and for a moment she realised how much he looked like a sulky teenager. A smile flitted across her lips. It scared her how much this man meant to her. He lifted his head, and she was shocked to see his eyes red and obviously swollen. He watched her carefully, holding her gaze. She delicately skimmed her fingers over his injured hand, and he winced.

"Let me..?"

He nodded, still not taking his eyes from her. Carefully she assessed the damage, lightly brushing her fingers across his wrist, down each joint of his fingers. His knuckles were swollen, and he had split the skin on his index and middle fingers. It was tricky to say, with this amount of swelling, but it seemed unlikely that he had broken any bones. Laying his hand on her knee, she leant down to her bag and extracted a bottle of saline, some butterfly clips and a large swab of cotton wool. Imperceptibly he squeezed her knee, and she smiled cautiously. He was still watching her like a hawk, not saying anything.

As she cleaned the two cuts, he gripped her knee, and she felt the warmth of his hand radiating through her jeans. She still didn't know what to say, embarrassed by her earlier behaviour, and she thought it wise to just concentrate on the task in hand. As she pressed the final butterfly plaster over the gash on his middle finger, she slowly lifted his fingers to her lips and gently kissed the back of his hand.

"There. All better now... I won't bandage them until the swelling has gone down a bit, but try to keep your fingers still."

He blinked, and then held her gaze again. She smiled weakly, her brows still furrowed in concern, and brushed her wayward fringe back from her eyes. He swallowed, and looked down at his hand, which she was still holding lightly in her lap.

"I'm sorry I upset you Laura..."

"So am I."

She felt the lump rising in her throat, and blinked quickly to stop herself crying. He looked at her, his eyes serious and inscrutable. Lifting his good arm, he stretched out to grasp her shoulder, pulling her to him. She hesitated, then tucked her feet up beneath her, and he laid his chin on the top of her head. Pressed into his chest, Laura suddenly felt calm. She felt him relax against her, his arm growing heavy around her. There was no need for conversation now. Their relationship had always been unspoken. As the clock on the mantelpiece ticked softly past 2.30am, they were both sound asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

As the half-light of dawn filtered in through the curtains in the living room, Laura stirred. She was still curled on Robbie's lap, his arm tightly around her. Blinking in the grey dimness she turned slightly, to ease the stiffness in her neck and shoulder, careful not to wake him. He groaned softly, pulling her closer to his chest, and pressed his lips to her forehead. "Laura..." She stilled and waited for his breathing to settle again, a small smile playing across her lips, before nestling into him again, relaxing into another doze.

* * *

He had been watching her sleep for nearly half an hour now, her delicate features smoothed out in relaxation. His hand was screaming out for some painkillers and he was desperate for a cup of tea, but there was no way he was going to move and wake her. Not yet. At some point in the night she had settled her head on his lap, and pulled his discarded jacket over her shoulders. It was faintly ridiculous, her shock of blonde hair under his creased grey M&S jacket. It reminded him of nights on the town as a lad. Always lending some lass his jacket. She stirred slightly, screwing up her eyes against the daylight, and he smiled to himself. Laura Hobson aged 21 would have been a sight to behold...to be honest, Laura Hobson aged 51 and 3/4 was enough to make him lose all reason.

"Morning beautiful"

Her brilliant blue eyes twinkled as she smiled up at him, a little embarrassed by her position, brushing her fringe back off her face.

"Morning old man"

She grinned wickedly, and he stroked her cheek lightly.

"Awww...harsh. But true."

She leant into his palm, enjoying the gentleness of his touch,

"Not that true, actually"

She held his gaze, words unnecessary.

Monty miaowed loudly from the hallway, making them both start.

"Bloody cat..."

She smiled, amused, not for the first time, how spoilt Robbie has let his cat become...

"What time is it?"

"Nearly 8... do you need to get moving?"

She nodded, closing her eyes and relaxing again back into his lap,

"I don't want to... But I need to be in the mortuary for 9...so yes."

He sighed, conscious that she had dragged herself halfway across town in the middle of the night to sort him out and he hadn't even got her to the spare bedroom,

"I'm sorry about all this, Laura..." He gestured at the sofa and his hand. "Last thing you needed was an uncomfortable night on my old couch."

She sat up slowly, elegantly stretching out her shoulders in something that resembled a yoga pose.

"Actually, this was the best night's sleep I've had in ages"

For a second he wondered if she was taking the mick...but no. She wasn't. He rubbed her back tenderly, their faces inches apart.

"Me too."

She dropped her chin, turning away from him slightly, her embarrassment returning,

"I'm sorry I, for want of a better word, jumped you last night...I've no idea what came over me. It won't happen again."

He smiled. He loved how proper she became when she was embarrassed. Here she was, having slept curled up on his lap all night long, and she was still questioning herself. He could probably take some credit for that though, he thought sadly. Last night, as she'd cleaned his cuts, he'd finally understood what he had to do. Never in his wildest dreams had he seriously entertained the idea that she might feel the same way about him, that she might really want more. When she had kissed him, he had realised how wrong he had been. All these years. Then he had panicked, and some part of him hadn't wanted their first kiss to be tainted by the sheer awfulness of the day's events, wrapped up in the memories of Val. So he had run. Run from the very thing he most wanted. Not out of guilt or regret...just sheer, blind panic. And the further he'd run, the worse he had felt. He had become convinced he wasn't good enough, that she would be better without him, that she should move on. He'd argued with Hathaway, geez, he'd lost it completely. But she had come to find him. And he loved her.

But now, as she doubted herself again, he knew he couldn't wait any longer. Carefully he nuzzled her neck, his lips close to her ear, and whispered,

"That's a shame...I quite liked it."

She stiffened almost imperceptibly, digesting the significance of his words. He held her firm against him, understanding her need for absolute clarity. He wouldn't run this time, or make fun of her.

"Laura..."

Gingerly, his fingers still sore, he touched her cheek, turning her to face him. She looked slightly wary, afraid he would pull back,

"Please will you kiss me again..."

She hesitated, her brilliant eyes questioning him, a question he answered by lightly caressing her lips with his own, then drawing back to look at her.

This time, as she brought her lips to his, she was gentle, careful almost. Trying not to wince, he slid his hand to the back of her head, pulling her closer to him. She tilted her head slightly, and he deepened the kiss, needing her to feel his desire. Her arms wrapped around his back, and she relaxed into him, meeting his kiss with a passion she hadn't felt for years. Her whole body felt warm and alive, as the pieces all slipped into place. With a final firm kiss, Robbie pulled back to look at her. Her eyes shone, and he gave her a cheeky grin.

Now was not the time for a deep conversation, and he knew she had to leave, whatever things they needed to say could be tackled later,

"Got any plans for this evening?"

She smirked conspiratorially...

"Just one"

"Does it involve me, a curry and some cheap-but-respectable plonk?"

She giggled, thumping him lightly on the arm,

"It might."

"Perfect"

He kissed her quickly on the lips, and simply enjoying the fact he now could, did it again. She laughed, pulling herself away from his grasp...

"I have to go to work Robbie...those corpses won't dissect themselves"

He shook his head, smiling to himself,

"You know, some people might be put off by your gallows humour, Hobson..."

She considered it for a moment, doing a quick mental tally of a number of failed first dates,

"Hmm... I think you're probably right..."

He grinned, stealing another quick kiss,

"Good. I want you all to myself"

She almost snorted with laughter as she extracted herself from his grip and stood, exhilarated by his playfulness.

"Who are you, and what have you done with the infamously grumpy Inspector Lewis?"

"Oh, he's here...just having a break for a few hours until he sees Sergeant Hathaway"

She shook her head slightly, tidying up her bag, collecting her things together.

"He's the one who told me what had happened, Robbie..."

He sat back on the sofa, considering his hand carefully. After a long moment, he rubbed his good hand over his mouth and nodded,

"He's never going to let me forget this, is he?"

She smiled sweetly, kissing him tenderly on the forehead,

"Probably not. But I think, on this occasion it might be worth it."

She sat back down next to him, her hand resting on his shoulder,

"Are you going to be ok today?"

"With the case?"

She nodded, her eyes serious and full of concern.

"Aye."

She didn't want to argue, and simply squeezed his shoulder slightly. It was his decision to make.

"Ok."

She looked down at her bag, wondering what she could say to make him feel better,

"I'm taking myself off the case"

Her head snapped round,

"Will that be ok with Innocent?"

"Aye, she knows what I'm like with hit and runs. I can guarantee she's already got a nice pile of door-to-doors stocked up to keep me busy this week"

She smiled, relieved that he was thinking of himself for once, but again, that small voice of doubt crept in,

"Are you sure you're ok? You can tell me if this", she waved her arm at them "is all a bit too much too soon"

He grinned broadly and folded her into a tight hug.

"I think Hathaway would describe it as putting myself first."

"Now that's something I never thought I'd hear you say"

"Hmm..though technically it's not true"

She looked up at him curiously, "What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm hoping that you'll let me put you first, for once. And I don't want to mess this up by being on a case that will have me out all hours and will probably turn me into a proper arse for at least a week"

"I don't know what to say"

"Just say, 'yes Robbie, I'll be home at a sensible hour, and we'll order a curry when you get in'"

* * *

He'd sat there for a long time after she'd left, gradually working though what had just happened. He still couldn't actually believe that she'd come over to find him, and that she'd stayed. He'd hardly been able to speak to her. But maybe that was it. Maybe when it all came down to it there wasn't anything they needed to say. It had all felt so natural and easy. His eyes fell on the picture of Val on the side table and he smiled.

"See lass, there's life in the old dog yet..."

[OK, now *technically* this is where I planned to end the story, but I can't help but wonder if there might be some mileage in how their relationship unfolds. What do you think?]


End file.
